


A Small Theft

by bending_sickle



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 15:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10666005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bending_sickle/pseuds/bending_sickle
Summary: They survived the sandstorm - barely - and now Slit's facing the barrel of a gun and some seriously pissed off wives. And they want something from him. (Alternative version of the scene where Max faces off with Furiosa by the War Rig.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Slit/Wives, “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

Slit’s first instinct is to talk shit. 

Actually, his first instinct is a hard jab with his right fist, maybe break a nose, but that’s out of the question, so running his mouth is his next best bet. It’s also a kamikrazee bet, so he bites the ragged inside of his cheeks.

“You what?” he grinds out between his teeth.

Immortan’s breeder jabs the gun at him, still a good few feet away, nowhere near close enough for Slit to try and wrestle it off her. Besides, Furiosa’s still got her rifle on him. “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

Slit raises his eyebrows and tries to look fierce. Behind the wife with the gun and her ropes of red hair, one of the breeders shrinks back. “You want my kit, you come and take it off me,” he growls, and Nux’s gob would be halfway to the floor with awe at him standing up to two barrels like that. 

Except Nux is unconscious at Slit’s feet like some useless lump Slit hasn’t bothered getting around to cutting off yet.

That sandstorm was a wopper, no two ways about it, and it cost Slit nearly all the skin of his palm to hang on to his perch. That, and he thinks he’s got a tooth loose, from when the blood bag kicked him. But the three of them made it out alive, although their car (sorry, Nux’s car. Damn pup keeps crowing about how it’s his, bolts to wheel.) is totalled. 

Slit had a fun time of it digging his driver out.  The sand had jammed the door shut, the roof door was all warped, and the only other way Slit saw was to break the window with a wrench.  He opted for digging, instead, because he didn’t quite fancy pulling glass out of Nux’s stupid face.

It took him longer to dig out the side of the car out than he liked, because that blood bag his idiot of a chrome driver had insisted on bringing with them kept waking up, lurching like some pup who had gotten in the grog, and then Slit had to go haul on his chain until he could knock some sense into the feral. Or knock it out, rather.

Long, sandy, sweltering story short, Slit ended up hauling Nux’s bony (and still unconscious) ass to the only car in sight, which turned out to be the damned war rig. Which, naturally, had not one stitch of crew left and a whole lot of pissed off breeders instead. 

And Furiosa. With a rifle and a steely look in her eye that makes Slit’s balls want to crawl back up inside him.

The Imperator - if she was that, still, traitoring smeg that she was - takes two quick steps closer and levels the rifle between his eyes.  She’s still not close enough for Slit to do anything, not even kick sand in her face.

“Drop your belt, war boy."

“Lancer,” Slit specifies, bristling. He fought hard for that title.

Furiosa tilts her head a little, but does not otherwise acknowledge him. A slow-arching eyebrow tells him he’s one trigger-finger squeeze away from dead meat. 

One of the other wives, the one with the belly-full of pup, calls out. “Don’t. No killing.”

Behind Slit, the far echo of war drums say otherwise.  

Closer, the clang of chain against metal tells Slit the blood bag’s awake again. Great. Won’t be long before it  yanks the chain free from where Slit’s looped it, after Slit snapped the chain hooking him up to Nux.

“Just give us your pliers,” says the redhead again. 

Slit presses his lips into a tight line. “I need my pliers.” If they won’t kill him, and he’s got stuff they need, he can stall them. If they’re stupid.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” From between Slit’s legs, Nux raises his head. Slit glances down at his driver. He looks like a Wretched on a bad day.

Suddenly, Slit’s on his back, eyes full of blue and sand, lungs screaming for air. His legs are all tangled up in Nux and he punches blind, getting a hit on his second swing. Furiousa shouts, guttural war-cry, and Slit’s about to flip them over when the rifle’s end jabs into his face, catching on his staples. It hurts like a fucker.

“Get his gear,” Furiosa shouts at the wives, not taking her eyes off him. 

Slit hears feet on the sand but can’t see anything but the watery blue of the sky as his eyes leak, trying to clear the sand out. A flash of red tells him that particular breeder has her gun trained on Nux, now. Slit’s lip curls at the thought. His driver isn’t going to be put down soft by a breeder, of all things.

A couple of the other breeders, he can’t see which, grab at his belt, tugging desperately at the buckles until it falls open.  They only wanted the pliers - fuck knew what happened to the war rig’s, probably got sucked into the storm - but they’re taking his whole kit, now, and that’s just shitty.

“Traitoring scum,” Slit hisses at the sky. Furiosa digs the rifle deeper into his cheek.

The war drums sound closer.  The wind carries the thin scream of a guitar. 

The sharp crack of metal snapping like bones breaks the silence. A thud of something heavy hitting the ground. Another crack, and another. Slit wonders what was so bloody important that the breeders needed to cut that couldn’t wait until they had made a proper escape.

Just as suddenly as she had jumped him, Furiosa pulls off him, her rifle that last thing to touch him. “Let’s go,” she says, stepping backwards towards the rig.  “Get inside.”

For one disorienting second Slit thinks she’s talking to him, then the breeders hop to it and disappear into the war rig.  The redhead with her gun and the other with her belly stay by the door until Furiosa’s beside them.

Slit curses as the door slams and the engine turns. Nux pushes himself to his elbows and sniffs the air, exhaust fumes reaching him.  “Prize is running away,” he says, groggily.

“Yeah,” Slit says, heaving himself up to his feet, then curses a streak as his trousers almost fall to his knees.  Holding them up with one hand, he grabs onto Nux with the other and drags him up. The war rig inches away from them. Discarded on the sand lie three strange metal belts, Immortan Joe’s brand staring at him.

As one, they turn to look behind them at the war party approaching.

“What the bleedin’…” Slit starts, then recognises the swaying figure running for them.  It’s the damned blood bag, chain in its hand.

Nux turns towards the rig, still slowly picking up speed, then gives Slit a shit-eating grin. “Come on, then,” he says, and grabs onto Slit’s hand, tugging him along as he breaks out into a run, aiming for the rig.

They make it to her side and scramble up.  Moments later, the blood bag does the same. Slit doesn’t give the feral too much thought. It’ll probably fall off at the first quick turn.

Nux licks his scarred lips.  “Gonna drive this rig,” he promises the sun.

Slit rubs Nux’s head. “Not just yet, you’re not. There’s some breeders to haul first.”  Slit fists the sagging cloth of his trousers. “And my fucking belt, too.”

 


	2. Coda: Cold Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two nights later, the same request. But this time, everything is different.

Even longer, though just as sandy (Slit fucking hates the sand), story short, and Nux does get to drive the war rig. Slit gets his belt back, even some of his gear, but he has to eat his words about traitoring.  

Curled up in the war rig’s perch with Nux two nights later, Slit wonders not for the first time just what, exactly, has happened. They’re traitors, Furiosa’s taken them to this Green Place that’s nothing but yet more fucking sand, the blood bag’s not a feral after all, and there are war-ready History Woman-looking scrapped breeders calling the shots.

And then there’s the redhead, who is sitting on the opposite side of the perch with her knees drawn up to her chest and a queer expression on her face.  Her mates aren’t far off, tucked away in the war rig’s cabin like pups in the pit.

Nux shifts sleepily, hands balled up tight against the cold. The tip of his nose, too, is cold. Slit knows this because it’s pressed up against his chest boring a hole in him. Abruptly, Nux whines and sticks his frigid hands down Slit’s trousers.

Slit nearly jumps out of his skin. “You smeg-faced Wretched lump of shit! Nux!”

“‘M cold.”

“I know!” Slit paws at Nux’s hands, trying to get them off him. 

From across the perch, the redhead - Capable, Slit remembers - giggles.  Both war boys freeze (some more literally than others. Dammit, Slit’s dick was the only bit of him that was still warm).

Slit drops his hands away and glares at her. “What’s funny?”

Capable is still smiling when she answers. “You.”

Slit dials his glare up a notch.  Capable just smiles wider, so Slit drops it.  “See how you like it, freezing hands on your gear,” he grumbles.

Nux looks up at him accusingly. “Not on your gear.”

Slit rolls his eyes. “Close enough.”  He tucks his free hand - the one not wrapped around Nux, under an armpit.

Capable’s laugh and their talk seems to have drawn out the rest of the wives - no, not wives anymore, not breeders, neither.  They walk the length of the rig slowly and crowd down around Capable, keeping well away from the war boys.  In whispers, Capable lets them in on the joke.  One stares, one blushes, and the short-haired one titters.  It’s got a teasing edge that Slit doesn’t like.

Nux, fuck him with a tail-pipe, actually sticks his hand down deeper.  Slit lets him, but gives him an earful about it anyway.  When he’s done, Capable says something but Slit doesn’t catch it. “What’s that?”

Capable almost looks relieved that he didn’t understand her and bites her lip like she’s going to let her words die on the sand.  At the last moment, she clears her throat and tries again. “My hands aren’t cold.”

Slit squints at her like she’s got sunstroke. “Good on ya?” 

The blonde - the one that’s like the breeding wife that died, except all limbs - gives Capable a very similar look.  Capable stares them both down until the blonde - Dag, was it? - tilts her head like a lizard spotting a fly.  “Take it off?”

Capable’s lip twitches.

Dag turns towards Slit. “Take it off,” she repeats.

Oh, V8, she’s off her nut.  “What now?” Slit groans.

Capable’s lips stretch into a smile.  The other wives - no, remember, they’re something else entirely now, something sharper - smile too.  The memory of mirror shards glinting bright in the sun crosses Slit’s mind. Signals. Traps. Sharp and pretty broken pieces.

“You heard me,” Capable echoes, one voice, one smile. Her first words to him come back over miles of sand.  “Take. It. Off.”

Slit looks at them, then, slowly, unfastens his belt. Nux shifts in his arms and follows his gaze. Capable’s smile softens.  “You too.”

Once the two of them are naked, the women crowd close. Their hands are warm.


End file.
